【0507】

In the second half of last year, I wrote a journal, saying that if you want to move, it is best to travel lightly, and also plan what to bring and what not to bring, which seems very romantic.

Now the situation is unpredictable, I dare not continue the long-term rental, I found a short-term rental for three months, how to rent a warehouse is not cost-effective, simply give away all the large items, and the furnishings in the house are also picked up and thrown away, after all, who knows where the next stop is?

There are a lot of strange props hoarded, a pair of hollow lanterns, a brass alarm clock, a roll of hospital stethoscopes, three animal masks, a box of forest green spray paint that has not been dismantled, two cans of portable spray, two dozen light filters, forget it, don't want it, who knows when the next shooting will be. I only packed a few small boxes to take away, and it looked like I was ready to flee in a hurry at any time, but it was actually the same. The medicine box was too full, and half of it was given away.

Sitting on the floor and looking at the three boxes of things sorted out, I felt a little sad. How did it become like this, how did it suddenly become like this? But if you think about it, there may never be a generation that has not experienced a world catastrophe, and now we are in our time.

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【0514】

I stayed up six nights in two weeks. The last paper was handed in at 12 o'clock in the afternoon. At night, my brain was still buzzing with a fever, like an overloaded computer hard drive, but a familiar, constricted feeling of emptiness had appeared in my chest, and I began to do nothing again.

After listening to an online class by Neil Gaiman, he said that writing is like walking naked on the street, and you will always expose more than you can accept.

The improvement exercise he proposes is to write about the decisions you regret the most, the most embarrassing moments, the secrets you least want to confess in your life, and read them to others—because the writer needs to be familiar with the feeling of exposure and master this power. To be honest, I don't think it needs to be like this, and most of the people who write hard to swallow seem to be far from the point where they need to face the truth of their hearts.

But when it comes to exposure, I really appreciate it. I seem to have said it a few times before, writing a story makes people feel very exposed, and a friend said it at the time, but I didn't see anything about you from it.

"You're saying that in addition to my love for repressive protagonists, plots driven by the outside world, unbridged divisions, long preaching, and maybe a bit of a father-love complex?" （。

...... It's kind of hard to describe. It's not my thoughts or preferences that I'm forced to expose: these things are written for people to see. What is exposed is what I see and what I don't see as a small individual trying to depict the world. It is the limitation of my vision and ability as an author. And this is the unknown that can never be filled. It's a shame on the incompetent self. Fear of borders. It's the feeling of "not writing well" that will always follow you.

I often see friends complaining that the writing is not good and they can't read it. I probably say it a lot myself. Generally speaking, I would reassure me that no, it was well written. But deep down, I know that this feeling is always there and always real. This feeling is likewise part of the exposure. It's hard for us to escape.

Everyone probably has a stage like "OOC warning" and "scum writing warning" before and after the text, and gives themselves various explanations and annotations. When I look back at the old texts, the most embarrassing thing is that they try to cover up their traces in front of them. It exposes more uneasiness than the work itself.

Sometimes I feel embarrassed and I don't reply to comments anymore. Even the comments that I liked and touched in my heart didn't seem to be able to say anything other than "thank you". I don't think that's good.

The feeling of writing badly is too strong and too common later. I hardly want others to see what I've written. I'm guessing it's fake, however, there doesn't seem to be anything to say about it either. What do I expect? When I knew it wasn't well written? At this time, the story is a broken bone that is difficult to remove across your chest and abdomen, and the pain it causes is only related to yourself.

I am me, stories are stories, and readers are readers. More and more often, I feel like we're talking our words through words, but pretending to be communicating. If you leave me a message, I hope you don't mind – my not-so-gloomy ego will still be happy with the comments! There are a few comments recently that make me very happy and touched. Although when the other person said it was very pertinent, I thought about other questions, such as whether I was worth it.

Alas, when I said these incomprehensible things, I guess it was also "write about your secrets and read them to others". Probably the scariest secret of my boring life is how hard it is to write. Get up tomorrow and write an essay.